Sweeter Than Wine

By Drew Greenfield

'My resolve is weakening. Something new is happening, something wonderful, frightening and inviting. I'm being trawled into a net of my own making, and from which there may be no escape . . .'

***

Nicole Durand takes a job as housekeeper-companion to Cathy, wife of wealthy Bordeaux winegrower, Yves Ravel, to earn money for university. She isn't looking for romance, but when she meets the Ravels' son, Andy, she is irresistibly attracted to him. Should she give in to her feelings, risking her future ambitions and his – or settle for friendship, and be the sister Andy never had?
The past few years have not been easy for Nicole. She has struggled to come to terms with her father's early death and with her mother Denise's subsequent addictions, lies and bad choices in men. In spite of it all, she has come through lycée with top marks. She has had to grow up quickly.
Now, as she grows closer to Cathy and her feelings for Andy intensify, Nicole becomes caught up in her employers' problems as well as her own – by Yves' obsession with the business, his threats to stop funding Andy's education, the continual arguments and by the Ravel family tragedy. Moreover, she is distrustful of Denise's new partner, and afraid her younger siblings may suffer the way she did. With three years of study in a foreign country looming, these are all complications she doesn't need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magda Green Books
• Release date: Mar 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201216993

Book preview

Sweeter Than Wine

Drew Greenfield

Copyright 2018 © Drew Greenfield

Published in the UK by Magda Green Books

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events, is entirely coincidental.

Cover image: Bohal, Église St Gildas

Licensed under Creative Commons License CCBY-SA 3.0

© Pymouss/Wikimedia Commons (adapted)

All of a sudden, I’m empty of reason but filled with longings that for six months I’ve tried to suppress. My resolve is weakening. Something new is happening, something wonderful, frightening and inviting. I’m being trawled into a net of my own making, and from which there may be no escape.

But I don’t want to escape. Since those kisses, I‘ve never been so certain of anything in my life.

….. I’m madly, hopelessly in love with him.

CONTENTS

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Bordeaux, France, Early June

1.

Nicole

The bus pulls away, leaving me in the middle of Bordeaux wine country. Vines border the road to right and left, stretching into the distance as far as I can see. The fresh air, laden with unfamiliar scents, is intoxicating.

I stare up at the house. It’s built on the only ridge for kilometres around. Château Ravel. I know not all Bordeaux winegrowers live in palaces and I wasn’t expecting a real castle. But I wasn’t expecting this either. My heart gives a nervous flutter. Chance will be a fine thing, I think. What would I give to live in a place like this!

The house is huge, a long-fronted modern building of brick and decorative stone, two floors, with a landscaped garden. The whole property is surrounded by a metre-and-a-half-high wall topped with a metal railing. It’s fronted by an ornate metal gate, which lies open giving me a perfect view. It isn’t a typical French house but reminds me of something you would find in the middle of the English countryside. Two cars are parked on the drive, a silver Mercedes saloon near the front door and a small red hatchback half way along.

Everything shrieks of luxury: the neat stone paving, the picture windows keeping watch over the greenery of the Gironde countryside; the perfect symmetry of the shrubs and flower beds. The front door, of solid wood carved with a grape motif, is protected by a stone portico supported on pillars. I wonder whether I’m going to be glad or sorry I answered that ad. Live-in housekeeper and companion wanted, it read, and I thought why not? I need a full-time job, away from the flat, from Maman, Jean and their talk of marriage.

My adventure nearly ends before it has begun. I’m about a third of the way along the drive when a youth on a bicycle swings round a corner from the side of the house and almost knocks me off my feet into the shrubbery. I feel the draught of air as he passes. His muttered Pardon is almost lost in the breeze of his going as, head down and pedalling hard, he sweeps out of the gate and onto the road.

I’m recovering my balance when the front door opens and a young woman of around thirty comes out. Looking as if she’s swallowed something with a nasty taste, she stomps down the drive. I smooth down my skirt, straighten my glasses on my nose and resume my walk in the opposite direction.

‘Good luck with that,’ the woman sniffs as our paths cross midway between house and gate. She gets into the hatchback and reverses along the drive. A disgruntled applicant, I guess. In half-an-hour’s time, maybe I’ll feel the same way.

I catch my first glimpse of my prospective employer. She doesn’t look intimidating. She offers her hand and then stands aside to usher me indoors. ‘You must be Nicole,’ she says.

**

2.

I glance round the spacious atrium, its floor tiled with grey slate. Ahead of me is a wide, burgundy-carpeted staircase, to the left of the stairs a passageway leading off towards the back of the house. There are several doors. Through two on my left, I see the colour scheme extends to the rooms. Burgundy carpet, pale grey walls. A second passageway goes off to my right.

Mme Ravel gestures towards one of the open doors. ‘Come into my den and we’ll have a chat.’

Often, telephone calls are deceptive. Trim, sophisticated, perfect coiffure, business-like; these were expressions I used to build my picture of her during our brief conversation. However, she’s not at all like that.

She is taller than me. She has a handsome rather than a pretty face, and thick light brown hair that curls over her forehead and round her ears. I put her age at around forty-five, though I’m not always a good judge. Instead of the snooty socialite, she seems friendly and easy going. Intelligent too, I think; not a woman to be messed with, but certainly not an ogre.

What she calls her den is a spacious room with bookshelves lining the walls on three sides. It has a centrally-placed table-cum-desk and two grey-leather-covered chairs. Mme Ravel sits down on one and motions me to the other. She appraises me silently. My stomach turns over with anticipation.

Though I wasn’t sure it was necessary for a domestic position, I took a lot of trouble with my appearance and think I’ll pass scrutiny. But she’s making me nervous. I see that my résumé lies on the table beside her and she’s tapping it with her left forefinger. I wonder if she bothered to read it. The job is about cleaning rooms, dusting furniture and washing windows. Maybe feeding the kids.

‘You have a beautiful house, madame.’ I feel I ought to say something to break the ice and a compliment seems a good way to begin.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I like it.’

‘I love the colour scheme. The grey and burgundy go so well together.’ I mean it sincerely and she smiles.

‘We have it throughout the house. I’ll show you later.’

At least she isn’t going to throw me out. I wait for her to begin the interview proper but she’s taking her time. Then she smiles again, an encouraging smile, though her eyes resume their scrutiny.

‘So, what about you, Nicole? You’re nineteen?’

‘Oui, madame. I’ll be twenty in January. I grew up in Bordeaux.‘

‘And school - you took a year out?’

‘Oui, madame. I finished lycée last summer.‘

‘And passed the Bac.’ Mme Ravel taps my résumé again. She raises an eyebrow. ‘How interesting! Arts and languages. French and English literature - and German.’ So she has read it. ‘And your marks are good - excellent.’

‘Merci, madame.’

‘And a British Council certificate of proficiency in the English language?’

‘My grandparents paid for the test. The school recommended it, madame.’

‘Call me Cathy. Madame sounds as if I run a brothel.’ She laughs. I’m warming to her. Her eyes are brown and mischievous. I realise she isn’t French, though her accent is slight. American, I think - or English. ‘So, what about the past few months? You had a job?’

‘Part-time waitressing. Hotel and bar work. But it’s seasonal.’

‘Twenty-eight years ago, I had the same problem. You want something a bit more permanent.’ She nods as if she understands. ‘Do you have sisters and brothers, or is it just you?’

‘One of each, madame.’ I begin to relax a little. ‘Sophie is thirteen. Bernard’s fifteen, a year and a half older.’

‘Teenage boys, eh . . .’ She gives me a friendly grin. ‘. . . moody and stubborn?’

‘Bern isn’t too bad.’

I decide to risk a question of my own. I hope I’m being tactful and not too forward. ‘Do you have children, madame . . . I’m sorry, Cathy? There was a boy on a bicycle . . . when I arrived.’

‘Gerard? Christ, he isn’t mine,’ she screeches. ‘Gerard’s my husband’s nephew.’

‘Pardon. I just assumed.’

‘Apology unnecessary! Gerard’s OK helping in the winery, but he’s hopeless around the house. Yves and I have one son - Andy, past the teenage stage, I’m happy to say. He’s nearly twenty-three . . .’ She pauses before continuing. ‘No, there’s only Andy. We wanted a daughter too, but we couldn’t.’ Her frankness warms me to her even more. ‘Mais c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?’

I nod in agreement, unable to think of a suitable reply. Cathy puckers her lips and pats me on the arm. There is motherly feeling in the gesture, more than I get from Denise - my own mother - and my heart goes out to her.

‘The last few girls let me down badly,’ she says after a moment or two. ‘They were experienced, would you believe. But I want more from a companion.’ Cathy leans forward as if sharing a secret. ‘I asked the woman before you the title of the last book she read. She gave me a blank look.’ She leans back. ‘But I like you. I’ll give you a month’s trial.’

I can’t believe my luck and just nod before swallowing a gulp of air. My mouth is as dry as the Bordeaux summer.

‘So, I suppose we’d better talk about pay,’ Cathy goes on. ‘What about five hundred for the trial period? You can start tomorrow! Three days a week and the odd evening for now. I’m looking for a live-in companion so, if we click, maybe twelve hundred a month plus board when you’re full time. If you still want the job, that is.’

‘Euros? But that’s . . .’ I give another gulp and clap my hand over my face.

Cathy puckers her lips again, considering. ‘Well, we might manage a bit more when the trial’s over.’

‘I didn’t mean to . . . That’s not what I meant.’ Now I’m flustered. Twelve hundred euros is more than I earned in three months of casual work. With board and lodgings included, it’s much more than the minimum wage, and way better than was offered at my last interview. ‘Twelve hundred is generous.’

‘Well, I’ve said it now so I’ll stick to it,’ Cathy says. ‘No fixed hours but I need you to be flexible about evenings and weekends. We’ll work around the idea of two days and two evenings off a week. I teach part time and you’ll be alone in the house a lot. My husband is often away.’

‘You’re a teacher?’

‘I teach English in the city.’

‘I’d like to do that one day. I love languages, especially English literature.’

‘What are your favourites?’ She gestures towards the bookcases. ‘More than half of those are in English. You’re welcome to borrow any time you like.’

‘Dickens is my favourite,’ I say. ‘David Copperfield and Christmas Carol. I like more modern writers too - Daphne du Maurier, Margaret Atwood, and Zadie Smith.’

‘We have something in common then. I like Atwood too, though I think her books must be difficult in the English versions for a French student. And there’s nothing to stop you being a teacher.’ She taps my résumé again. ‘This is more like a college application than the badly-written stuff I’ve been getting. You could be at university this year with those marks. Higher education in France is well subsidised, and there are support grants if . . .’ She stops mid-sentence and I can tell she is annoyed with herself. ‘I’m so sorry, Nicole. That’s none of my business.’

‘No, it’s OK. And I know about the fees and the grants. But I need to do it my way. I want to study in Great Britain.’

‘And you need some capital? Well, OK, as I say, the job’s yours if you want it. What will your parents think of you moving in with us?’

That’s the one question I hoped she wouldn’t ask. I don’t want to have to explain about Denise. So I tell the plain truth, or as close as I want to get to it. ‘My father died when I was twelve. My mother has a new boyfriend. They’re going to get married, so home won’t be home any longer.’

‘You poor soul!’ Cathy nods and pats my arm. ‘Can you cook?’

‘I’m quite a good cook.’ It isn’t an idle boast. I had plenty of practice while my mother was sick. Sick. Unwell. It’s strange how easily I voice the euphemisms now.

‘There’ll be some cooking, though I like to cook too. And there’s laundry and cleaning the rooms. Shopping. Putting up with Andy of course - when he’s home!’

‘I can do that, Cathy.’

‘Nothing very strenuous, but I’ll expect good value, mind. I didn’t see another car. You came by bus? Can you drive?’

‘Yes. I’ve already passed the theory test and booked the practical. I have over 2,000 kilometres driving experience with a friend.’ My ex-boyfriend Henri was quite a bit older than me and he jumped at the chance to teach me about cars.

‘I’ll help you get more kilometres if you like. There’s Grandpa Ravel’s old car. We’ll fix it up and when you pass you can use it for trips to the village, or to visit your family, or friends. Whatever you like.’ She opens a drawer under the table-desk, picks up my résumé and pops it inside. ‘I don’t think we need that now,’ she says. ‘Let me show you the house - and where everything is.’

She takes me on a tour. I’m not one for envy but I catch myself sucking my bottom lip. I fight the growing feeling that life has been unkind to me until now. Our crowded flat in downtown Bordeaux seems so far away and insignificant. Every room here, every passageway, every corner speaks to me of space, comfort and luxury. I want to resist but find myself wallowing in its velvety softness. The vast living-room lies off the hall next to the library where we’ve been talking. From there, we go into the dining-room, then to the kitchen. A conservatory runs the full length of the house at the back and opens on its short side to a terrace with a swimming pool. The house is oriented so that, in the summer months, the morning sun will warm the terrace, while the conservatory catches the evening sunset.

Beyond the garden and about two hundred metres away is a bank of young trees, through which I catch a glimpse of other buildings. Part of the winery, I guess. Every château must have one.

I can see at a glance that cleaning the house will be easy. There are no mouldings or dark wainscoting to gather dust, no dark corners. Cathy tells me all the windows open out and swivel round to permit washing from inside.

We are half way up the staircase when a door bangs somewhere in the house. Cathy stops and grips the rail.

‘That’s odd!’ She turns back and heads towards the passage to the right of the front door. ‘Carry on and have a look around by yourself, Nicole.’

I hear the pad of her footsteps on the tiles, the squeak of another door then, a moment later, the sound of her voice, raised and annoyed. ‘What the hell are you doing in my house?’

There are more footsteps. Cathy’s are accompanied by the clatter of leather heels. A female voice mumbles an apology and something about a key, but I don’t catch the rest. The door closes again and I hear no more.

I carry on up the stairs. All five bedrooms boast an en-suite WC and shower. The one in the master bedroom has a bath. In addition, there is a separate huge bathroom. I have almost completed my hasty tour when Cathy re-joins me in the final room. She’s doing her best to calm her breathing.

‘Martha something or other. Would you believe, Yves hired her without telling me? All bosom, legs and heels. It seems she’s going to install a computer network for the business. He gave her a key to the office! Not a licence for the rest of the house, the little . . .’ Cathy leaves the sentence unfinished but I get the idea.

She leads me downstairs and points to the passageway across the hall. ‘The office is down there. You won’t have to worry about that. Yves has a woman who dusts his desk from time to time. I’ll have to make sure the inner door is locked when both Yves and Georges are out. Georges is Yves’ brother. We can’t have strangers wandering around the house.’

We go back to the kitchen where Cathy brews some coffee. We drink it and then she shows me where everything is kept - food, crockery, knives and forks, and the rest.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says. ‘I might give you Andy’s current room when you come to live in. It’s closer to the stairs. He can move into the one at the end of the passage, out of your way. He’ll be away from home most of the year anyway.’

‘He’s at university?’

‘Oxford. He graduated from Pièrre et Marie Curie in Paris two years ago. A bachelor’s in science. He’ll be home soon on vacation.’

‘Oxford?’ To go to Oxford would have been a dream come true. But I have other plans now.

‘Yes. He’s doing a D Phil. Mathematical Physics.’

‘Formidable! You must be very proud.’

For a second, I fancy there’s a tear forming at the corner of one eye. Then it’s gone.

‘Yes, Nicole,’ she says. ‘I am.’

**

I figure Andy must be studious; you have to be to graduate from Pierre et Marie Curie when you’re twenty. I picture a lanky, awkward youth with long hair and braces on his teeth. Probably untidy and eccentric, a younger version of the science teacher at my school. Yet, the Andy I meet a few days later is not what I imagined. Andy Ravel is tall, well-built and more than a little handsome. His face bears the softness, the innocence of youth, but these are traits I find attractive in him, as magnetic as the dark brown eyes and arched eyebrows that make my stomach do a flip at the first sight of him.

It’s my second week. I’m in the kitchen, preparing something for the evening meal. He opens the door from the conservatory and drops a big suitcase on the floor.

‘Who are you?’ He reaches across the worktop where I’m working, grabs half the raw carrot I’ve sliced and begins munching.

‘Nicole.’ I throw him a disapproving look. ‘Your mother hired me.’

‘I see,’ he says and, still munching, parks himself on one of the high stools at the breakfast bar. ‘Is this part of my dinner?’

‘It would have been if you hadn’t chewed it.’

I collect the chopped vegetables and sweep them into a stew-pan. His eyebrows come together in a frown and for a few seconds we stare at one another. He is first to lower his eyes.

‘Now, you’ll have to excuse me,‘ I say. ‘I have to finish up here. I have a bus to catch.’

**

He comes into his room while I’m vacuuming. I’ve been in the job another seventy-two hours. He towers above me. I’ve underestimated his height. He must be at least one metre ninety in his socks. I switch off the machine and take a couple of steps back to leave a respectable gap between us.

‘Sorry about the carrot!’ His dark eyebrows shoot up. ‘We weren’t properly introduced. I’m Andy!’

‘I guessed as much.’

‘And you’re Nicole.’

‘Bien sûr.’

‘I thought she would have taken on an older woman.’

‘Why?’

He hitches his shoulders. ‘Oh, I don’t know. All the others have been at least thirty.’

‘Well, I’m nowhere near thirty and she didn’t.’ I manage a smile.

He studies me for a moment. I’m quite used to men’s stares but this look isn’t about sex. It’s at once disinterested and, I feel, innocent. But I realise that for some reason I’ve taken off my spectacles to study him back. He has his mother’s eyes, brown with a touch of humour. His hair is almost black, though not a sleek, silky black but rather soft and warm - hair which, in other circumstances, I might . . .

Dieu, I think, I’m not going there. He’s my employer’s son, for goodness sake. And the last thing I need is another relationship.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll last any longer than the others,’ he says. ‘C’est bien dommage! You’re quite pretty.’

‘Thank you for the compliment.’ He hasn’t taken his eyes off me and now he’s embarrassing me. I put on my glasses, pick up the hose of the vacuum cleaner and reach for the switch. Unlike the machine in our flat, which rumbles, whines and prevents conversation, this one emits only a low hum. ‘What makes you think I won’t stick the job, Andy?’

‘They never do,’ he answers. The eyebrows come together as he wrinkles his forehead. ‘I don’t know much about girls but I think it’s the isolation. They want to be in the city, with the cinemas and clubs and restaurants. Here it’s just grapes and grass.’

‘I like grapes and grass. Anyway, it’s only a half-hour drive to downtown Bordeaux, and not much longer in the bus.’

‘I suppose.’ He smiles for the first time. Now that he’s lost the disinterested expression, handsome does him an injustice. Not only is he tall and well-built, he’s well-proportioned too. His t-shirt is moulded to his shoulders and arms, and his jeans are tight round his buttocks. I have one of those moments, wondering if he’s stopped growing and whether his height might be reflected in his growth elsewhere. Not that my interest is predatory, but simply the natural curiosity of any normal single girl. I’m definitely not going there. Yet I can’t rid myself of the thought. What would it be like - how would it feel to have someone so big . . .? 

‘Bet you a hundred euros you won’t last past Christmas.’

‘What?’ I snap back to reality. His smile has turned to a boyish grin.

‘A hundred euros says you quit before Christmas.’

‘I’m not taking your bet - or your money. Anyway, I haven’t got a hundred euros. But for the record, Andy Ravel, I’m not a quitter. You’d be throwing your money away.’

‘We’ll see.’ He sneaks another know-all grin.

‘We shall indeed.’ It occurs to me that if I fail Cathy’s trial he could be right. Though she has shown me nothing but kindness and approval, I still have eighteen part-time days to go.

**

3.

My best friend Amelie leans across her kitchen table, waving a half-empty bottle of Merlot. My third week at Château Ravel is nearly over and we’ve been hanging out in her new bed-sit. She’s a trainee hairdresser and beautician in a salon in the city.

‘Do you want some more wine?’

I cover my glass with my palm. ‘I’ve had enough, and so have you.‘

‘You’re probably right, chérie.’ She sighs and puts down the bottle. ‘Let’s get comfortable and you can tell me the latest gossip about the Ravels. You promised!’

‘There isn’t anywhere else to sit,’ I protest. Apart from the table, two dining chairs, one closet and a bed, there isn’t any furniture. ‘You need to organise yourself better, Amm. You haven’t even got a TV yet.’

‘Next week! Let’s sit on the bed.’ She jumps up and crosses to the bedroom in two strides. ‘Come on!’

After my promised room at Cathy’s, Amelie’s flat seems tiny. Her kitchen is a practical size but the bedroom is no bigger than the closet where I hang the laundry. I follow her next door and we both flop down on the springy mattress.

Amelie hugs her knees. ‘Well?’

‘Cathy is brilliant.’ I copy her pose and we sit facing one another, she at the pillow end, me at the foot. We’ve shared confidences since before lycée. ‘I liked her right from the start. She treats me more like one of the family than an employee. Did I tell you? They’re even giving me a car. An old Citroen. Cathy has been taking me out on the road for practice. I’m not used to being spoiled like that.’

Amelie flicks back a loose strand of her auburn hair. ‘Lucky you! Any more gossip? What about that other woman who works there?’

The IT expert Yves hired, Martha, is in her late twenties, all legs and cleavage, and has a masters’ degree in computer science. I give Amelie the details including a summary of her wardrobe. ‘She’s a freelance contractor,’ I explain, ‘not a Ravel employee. She’s been up at the house a few times checking phone lines and cables.’

‘Competition?’ Amelie rolls her tongue round her mouth.

‘I don’t see how. We’re unlikely to have much in common.’

Amelie leans over and pats my knee. ‘I meant for the son.’

‘Andy? He’s twenty-two. Handsome, smart and innocent. Martha looks like a dominatrix. She’d have him for breakfast.’

‘You can’t possibly know that. About his innocence, I mean.’

‘It’s just a feeling I get.’

‘You like him?’

‘Not in that way. I didn’t like him at all at first, the way he seemed to take everything for granted: his parents’ wealth; his Paris education; a place at Oxford. To him, I was just another in a long line of domestics. But we’ve talked a bit since. He doesn’t appear to have many friends his own age.’

‘So, you do like him?’ Amelie has a way of making a question sound like an answer. Whatever I say, she’s already decided I have feelings for Andy.

‘Don’t, Amm!’

‘Don’t what, chérie?’

‘You know perfectly well, and I’m not playing! It’s possible to like a boy without wanting to jump into bed with him. Anyway, Andy’s more like a kid brother than a boyfriend.’

‘But he’s years older you said.’

‘Only three.’

‘An only child?’

‘The Ravels wanted a daughter but apparently they couldn’t.’

‘That’s tough. Maybe Cathy sees you as the daughter she never had. You shouldn’t get too close. This isn’t the way your life is supposed to be.’

‘Actually, I quite enjoy being an employee. And the Ravels, for all their money, are just people.’

‘Of course they’re people. But you know what I mean. You’re going to university. You want a career. You have a très bien diploma, for Christ’s sake.’

Amelie mostly talks sense, except when she’s trying to hook me up with a new boyfriend. I understand what she means about not getting too close, but what else do you do with someone you like? And I sense that Cathy and I could be good friends.

‘I haven’t forgotten.’ I squeeze Amelie’s hand. ‘Thanks, Amm, for caring. I’ll be OK. But I do need to work.’

**

4.

I have packed two suitcases with my clothes and a few other belongings, determined to make as many bus trips as it takes to transport my life to its new home. When Denise discovers my plans, she makes a fuss.

‘I don’t get why you have to live in.’ She tuts and eyes the suitcases. ‘There’ll be plenty of room at Jean’s place.’

‘I’ve tried to explain, Maman. Please don’t ask me again.’

Bernard and Sophie are as excited as I am, Bern especially.

‘I’ll have your room,’ he announces.

I hug them both. ‘I’m not going to the Moon. I’ll see you every week.’

Denise realises I won’t change my mind and offers to drive me. We manage to squeeze most of my books, my old computer and the suitcases into the back of her car, so one trip is enough. There’s no one at home. My mother helps me unload.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ she says.

‘Yes, I do.’

She turns to go. ‘I wish you - we . . .’

But she doesn’t finish.